


Imagine: You figure out Castiel is slyly orchestrating car/travel trouble whenever you work a case together in order to have a pretext to spend more time alone with you.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [42]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 08:37:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: You figure out Castiel is slyly orchestrating car/travel trouble whenever you work a case together in order to have a pretext to spend more time alone with you.

Flat tire on a dusty gravel road in the country miles from civilization with a wary herd of black-and-white splotched fly-magnet cows eying you whilst chewing cud as you cut through their manure minefield to get to the nearest farm for a ride to town, _check_. Mysteriously missing truck keys located after a two-hour delay in an inner pocket of the trench coat the existence of which Castiel claims no prior knowledge of while he reached for his billfold to pay the lunch check, _check_. Malfunctioning GPS, no cell service, dead cell battery, dead truck battery, fatally wrong turn somewhere 100 miles back leading to night spent watching the moon rise over a mountain pass in Colorado, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, _check_.

By comparison, the sputter and choke of the engine as it sucks in the last of the gas fumes circulating in the empty tank, gasps, and dies lacks a certain level of celestially creative kismet.

Cas guides the dead truck to the road side under the gradually slowing momentum. Shifting into park, he leans forward, squints at, and flicks the gas gauge. “We’re out of gas,” he notes aloud as if there is any question in your mind what just happened. He hits the gauge again to dispel any qualms.

“Uh huh,” you mumble, punch open the door, and hop out onto the sun hot black pavement. Heat swelters upward from the surface in waves. A polished red tractor trailer winds by, heated whorls of air howling in its wake. Inhaling an unpleasant nose-full of exhaust and whipped up road dirt, you settle against the bed of the truck, arms crossed, staring at the harvested remnants of a cornfield verging wayside.

Cas appears around the other side of the truck; at the rear he reaches beneath the shabby cover and withdraws a bright red – despite the rusty edges – gas canister. He shakes the empty can, sets it down, and sighs. Rounding to your side, he mirrors your semi-reclining stance. “I thought we had enough to make it to the bunker.” Looking sideways, his blues land on you, shining and repentant in their softness. “You were right; we should’ve stopped at the last gas-n-sip,” he offers in apology.

You shrug and readjust your overlapped arms. You want to give him the benefit of the doubt, you really do, but this keeps happening. Case concluded, it never fails that you’re waylaid by some motorized misfortune on the journey home. You’re beginning to suspect seraphim subterfuge is to blame. Not that you’re complaining, extra time with Cas feels like heaven and the profound happiness you experience in these tidbits of time together has very little to do with the fact he’s an actual angel. You never imagined he’d feel the same in return; the disbelief emerges in the form of a small smile curling the corners of your mouth to betray your hope.

“There was a sign for a service station a few miles back,” Cas suggests, not missing the shimmering radiance of the smile warming your face, “we could walk there and be back in less than an hour.”

You stifle the smile in order to test his true intentions, countering, “Or, we could call Sam and Dean – take ‘em less than 15 minutes to get here.” You quickly cast your gaze toward him to gauge his reaction – disappointment weights his features as a subtle frown and diminishing of luster in the vivid eyes.

He stares down stoically at the black boots encasing his feet.

“You know,” you muse, pivoting to face the angel to give him an avenue of reprieve and seize upon the opportunity to confirm your thoughts on the matter, “every trip we take without the Winchesters there’s some minor snag to delay us getting back home. It seems only natural that a person might start to get the idea these situations have nothing to do with chance and are an excuse made up by the other person involved to spend more time together.”

Avoiding your expectant eyes, the angel gulps guiltily. Jaw working to shape words, he watches his feet shuffle where the rubber soles stick to the baking blacktop before he speaks. “And if, hypothetically speaking of course-”

“Hypothetically, of course,” you concur with a bob of the head.

He continues, “-if someone was calculating to create the circumstances as you describe them, what might the other person think about that?”

“Hmm,” you hum under the guise of pondering the posited reversal of context as an impartial judge just to make him sweat.

His brow veritably glistens with beads of damp in the intense overhead light of the sun.

Sniffling a laugh, you extend a palm toward the blenched knuckles hidden by the hem of beige fabric hanging at his side and clutch his hand.

His nervously clenched fist yields to the fold and press of your fingers.

Unleashing the subdued smile, you solidify your clasp with a squeeze to emphasize the non-hypothetical nature of your answer. “I’d whole-heartedly reassure you you don’t ever need an excuse.”

Lashes flaring wide to fully bare the blue depths of devotion their darkness obscures, he shoots an astonished glance in your direction.

“Isn’t there a diner on the way to the gas station?” you ask, smile stretching the blushing skin of your cheeks. “If we walk slow enough, it could take us all afternoon.”

“Or maybe-” His eyebrows lift, hopeful. “-even longer?” A matching smile teases at his mouth.


End file.
